


and so it goes, until we fall

by ronsenboobi (snewvilliurs)



Series: blood-thirsting carrion birds (and other stories) [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dark Knight Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Deleted Scenes, Emotional Baggage, Emotionally Repressed Ala Mhigans, F/M, Gen, Patch 3.0: Heavensward Spoilers, Patch 4.0: Stormblood Spoilers, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29247267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snewvilliurs/pseuds/ronsenboobi
Summary: set at the end of the 3.0 quest "keeping the flame alive." after halatali, two countrymen speak of the past, new wounds, and the future.“I had no reason not to believe that Nanamo had been killed; I had long suspected the Monetarists capable of assassination. Even now, I…” Raubahn took a long breath that hitched in his throat and closed his eyes. His sultana may yet have drawn breath, but her ghost would surely linger until he heard her voice again. He cleared his throat and went on: “Ilberd said nothing of me that was untrue. But you…”
Relationships: Raubahn Aldynn/Warrior of Light
Series: blood-thirsting carrion birds (and other stories) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938766
Kudos: 8





	1. 3.0 ― VESPER BAY

**Author's Note:**

> this piece takes place after the [first chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24665125/chapters/59600686) of my story _blood-thirsting carrion birds_ , an au where ilberd survives baelsar's wall. it's a deleted scene of sorts that didn't fit into the main story, originally meant to expand on morgana keeping wielding tizona after the banquet. it had been sitting unfinished in my drafts since this summer, but i finally broke through and it ended up being a bit larger than just about swords! hope you enjoy.
> 
> title taken from a line in hellblade: senua's sacrifice, as featured in [this](https://open.spotify.com/track/6rbm8A3jWfCuxa4ob4Qwhn) track from the ost (which single-handedly carried me through the 30-50 drk grind): "for every battle won, a greater battle takes its place; and so it goes, until we fall. and in the end, we all fall. even the gods have their time. yet we still go on -- why?"

“Morgana,” said Raubahn, “you’re making me dizzy.”

At once, Morgana ceased her pacing—though her feet still itched for movement, aimless as it was. The fight had not left her bones; the release of exhaustion Raubahn could allow himself now that he was free of his bonds wore her down. Still, she sat. She folded her hands in her lap, demure in appearance but not in the way her thumb pressed hard into her palm, and then her leg started bouncing.

Raubahn reached out to lay a hand on her knee—his hand. It felt like such a strange, mad would-be world to think of him as missing a limb, as anything but the mountain he had once been. But she had felt his blood on her face. She had seen—

She stilled her leg. Raubahn’s touch did not linger.

“I’m sorry,” Morgana mumbled.

The words felt wrong; too much, and still never enough. By the look on Raubahn’s face, they sounded wrong, too.

He turned to Pipin. “Did you hear that, lad?”

“I believe that was an apology,” Pipin said, playing along.

“I must appear to be at death’s door, then.”

Morgana frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, just on the fringes of too sharp. 

She couldn’t make sense of the lightness in Raubahn’s voice, weary as it was.

“For you to apologize,” he clarified. How could he be so good-natured, after what he had gone through? Why was she the one so shaken? “I have to admit: from you, I did not expect pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Morgana said.

Her attempt at calm had failed thoroughly enough that she didn’t even think of it as she shot to her feet and started pacing again.

“You don’t need to stay,” Raubahn said.

“I will make certain Father is well looked after,” said Pipin diligently. “He is in good hands here.”

Morgana blew out a breath before it could be trapped in her lungs, unsure of whether this was their way of politely asking her to leave. It bothered her to think it; that alone was cause for concern.

“I know. I don’t want to…” she began, only for her voice to fade into silence. She felt a muscle in her jaw jump, and realized she had been gritting her teeth since—since Halatali? Since leaving Ishgard?

“I know you will take good care of him, Marshal. I’m not about to presume otherwise,” she said, leaving unspoken the trust he had gained when he helped her and Alphinaud out of Thanalan. She crouched in front of Raubahn and very carefully did not touch him. “And I know you’ll be fine. I know. But I—” she chewed on the words a moment— “don’t want to leave.”

Pippin looked upon the pair of them quietly, almost contemplative—his gaze lingered a moment longer on his father—then cleared his throat. “I ought to speak with Lady Yugiri and thank her for the assistance of her shinobi. Pray excuse me.”

The silence that lingered after his graceful exit was crushing enough to make Morgana regret her decision. Raubahn was strong, and she was glad to see him manage something of a smile, but even that was not enough to hide how weary he was. It went bone-deep, settled like a yoke on his bent shoulders. His gaze was distant.

“We don’t need to speak of it,” he said quietly.

The banquet’s horrors and the loss of his arm? His imprisonment, his ordeal in Halatali? Ilberd? She would rather walk on broken glass than ask which he meant.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Morgana said with a rueful half-smile. She shifted to sit on a crate opposite Raubahn’s seat and crossed her arms tightly, fingers worrying at a large scab above her elbow: the slash of Ilberd’s knife. When she spoke again, she stared at a point above Raubahn’s right shoulder. “Did you really never doubt me? That night?”

“Aye,” Raubahn said.

“You didn’t think, even once, that I could have killed your sultana? It’s been driving me mad.”

The mention of her pulled a dark pall over his eyes; of course it did. He had spent weeks grieving her, and the hope he was given now was the sort that cut deep through wounds yet unhealed. It was a hope that tortured for being out of reach more than anything else.

“You are many things, Morgana—and many of them unpleasant—but you are no poisoner,” Raubahn said, looking up at her. The unkempt hair that had escaped from his braids was tinged with grey, shining silver in the low light. “I was a fool blind to betrayal, but of this much I was certain.”

“They say that poison is the tool of women and cowards.”

Raubahn almost laughed at that, mostly a breath torn from his lungs. “Not women who thrive on battle. No matter what, you wouldn’t poison a girl. Not even as the means to an end.”

“I agreed to poison you, all those years ago,” Morgana said, without even a shred of remorse; the only thing she regretted was that she had let Gotwin die for his bloody morals. If this reminder of something he had known for more than eighteen years pained him, Raubahn did not show it. He had always known what she was. “A sultana isn’t that much of a stretch.”

“Would it be better if I said I believed every word that came out of Ilberd’s mouth?” Raubahn asked wearily.

Morgana shrugged, her shoulders stiff. She wished her battle with Ilberd had been… had been _more_. Had been bloodier. Had left her feeling drained of aether and rage—left her sated.

“You believed what he said about Her Grace. And about you, I’d wager.”

“I had no reason not to believe that Nanamo had been killed; I had long suspected the Monetarists capable of assassination. Even now, I…” Raubahn took a long breath that hitched in his throat and closed his eyes. His sultana may yet have drawn breath, but her ghost would surely linger until he heard her voice again. He cleared his throat and went on: “Ilberd said nothing of me that was untrue. But you…”

“Right,” Morgana said before he could finish. Why had she even asked in the first place? What did it matter whether he had doubted her? “I shouldn’t— I should be letting you rest. Not dredging up that night.”

She wanted to stand, but her feet would not answer her. She settled for rubbing her palms against the fabric of her trousers; her need for movement rushed through her like a river, its current relentless and impossible to diverge. And Raubahn’s tired eyes watched it.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

“After almost two decades, I’d be worried if I hadn’t,” Morgana replied without thinking—and it struck her, then, how long this conversation had been in coming between them.

But Raubahn shook his head. “Since we saw each other last.”

“I have gained a few ponzes of muscle.” She sniffed, looking past his shoulder once more as though Ilberd’s shadow lingered there. “Took up a new discipline. Ishgard is a misery.”

Morgana almost managed to force a smile. Her own deflections made her want to shake herself by the shoulders until even a morsel of honesty slipped out of her—and Raubahn deserved better than to feel the same, sitting in front of her with such unguarded vulnerability.

So she closed her eyes, too. For a moment, out of the familiar darkness, she could almost hear the guiding voice that she had thought belonged to the corpse in the Brume. A bit of madness, perhaps, coming loose after growing quietly inside her for twenty years of horror and toil.

“Someone told me not long ago,” she said quietly, “that I should accept that I cannot save everyone—that I should be fortunate just to save myself. But I have never tried to save everyone, have I? Saving myself is all I’ve ever been doing.” A long line of people she had left behind for the sake of walking forward: her woman; her son; the last of her blood, of her family. Minfilia. “Leaving you to him, it… it was the last drop. I still can’t stomach it.”

Morgana glanced at Raubahn’s eyes, finding their grey as steady as steel—and already she could tell what he might say to that. He would try to reassure her, noble as he was, disregarding his own pain for the sake of hers.

She did not let him get this far. “I know: you told me to go. I know.” A laugh clawed her way up its chest, bitter and humourless. “I kept hearing your voice for weeks. I was so bloody angry at you for sending me away. For not letting me have this fight.”

“It was mine,” Raubahn said, gentle without giving ground—unapologetic. His tone helped Morgana breathe easier; helped find her grip.

“Aye. But today—this one was mine.”

Raubahn nodded slowly, conceding this much. “Perhaps I should have let you kill him. But I couldn’t. You may resent me; I will bear it, knowing that it will rest far more easily on my shoulders than watching you destroy each other would have.”

Morgana’s teeth began to ache; once again, she forced her jaw to loosen. And she tried to think of even one damned thing she could say to that.

“You didn’t think I could beat him?” she managed, almost lightly.

“I saw your anger,” Raubahn said. He had none of his diplomat’s tact any longer; perhaps he tired of her. Morgana didn’t blame him. “I think you would fall on your own sword if it meant his end.”

“Perhaps,” she found herself saying.

Raubahn looked at her for a long, quiet moment—and this time, Morgana’s feet decided for her that she could not bear it any longer. She stood in one stiff motion, her hands rising to the straps buckled across her chest, and began to undo them.

“Morgana.”

She did not listen. Instead, she knelt in front of him again, ready to place Tizona’s grip in his hand.

“I’ve kept it long enough,” she said. “It belongs with you.”

Raubahn’s hand closed over hers around the hilt, his skin still too cold, and gently pushed it away. “What need have I of twin swords? Keep it. It should be in the hands of a gladiator.”

When his touch slipped away, Morgana’s fingers tightened around the hilt. This blade had spilled so much blood in her hands alone, and she saw no end to the blood that would follow. All she could do was make every drop count—for his sake, for her own, for everything that bound them as comrades. 

“I won’t stop,” she said, speaking at the sword. But it was not like her to keep her head down. She set Tizona down on the cold stone floor of the warehouse and lifted her gaze to Raubahn, laying her hand on his good shoulder. “I won’t stop fighting— _we_ won’t stop fighting—and one day, I will put that sword in your hand when we stand at the gates of our home. I swear it.”

For a moment, she feared the weariness in Raubahn’s face, her dread churning into some quiet horror in the pit of her chest that he might grow resigned. That he might say, ‘I will not be beside you then,’ or worse—‘forget Ala Mhigo; it is a fool’s dream.’

But he was beyond her doubts. His heart was as brave as it had ever been. 

His hand felt steadier when it rose to her arm, matching the sure grip she had on his shoulder. “I will hold you to that,” he said, and Morgana knew that he would have the strength to keep walking.

One foot in front of the other, over and over again.


	2. (BONUS) 4.0 ― THE LOCHS

Morgana waited until Sairsel was well on his way from Porta Praetoria to approach the war table, falling in beside Raubahn as she had so many times throughout the campaign.

“Is that what I think it is?” she asked, jerking her chin at the familiar shape of the parcel Sairsel carried.

“It was time. Pipin fights for the legacy of ancestors who are not his by blood—I thought it only right that he should carry that legacy in his hands.”

Morgana nodded. “You do him a great honour. I should know,” she said, and slowly drew Tizona’s twin. She would miss its steady weight at her back and in her hands. “You beat me to it.”

“Morgana. You don’t need to.”

Morgana shook her head. She cast a furtive glance at their surroundings—glad for the tense chaos of imminent battle—and, blade held downward, took Raubahn’s hand to close his fingers around the hilt.

“I swore to you, didn’t I?”

“Aye.”

“I would have kept my word even if you hadn’t given the other to Pipin. There is something of you in those swords, Raubahn—my time wielding it was only ever temporary.”

“And now this one has something of you,” he said, glancing down. His thumb stroked the hilt.

“Then it is where it belongs,” Morgana said, and moved away before anyone could take notice—or before she could make any further implications.

“What will you do?” Raubahn asked of the empty scabbard at her back.

“The black scimitar in my tent. You’ve seen it, yes?”

Raubahn nodded.

“It was my brother’s,” she said, watching the retreating line of Sairsel’s back. Sometimes, when she tried to recall her brother’s face, it looked more like her son’s than she remembered. “I swore to you I would put Tizona in your hand in this moment, but I made a promise to myself long before that. I will liberate Ala Mhigo with Gotwin’s blade or not at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! 💚 leave a comment if you like, and find me over on [twitter](https://twitter.com/vulpinewood) where i say shit like "STORMBLOOD 2 WHEN"


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